


Man of Virtue

by majortom



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Character Study, Gen, Protective Sherlock, Seven Deadly Sins, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, manic depressive sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 13:50:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1430821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majortom/pseuds/majortom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's take on the seven deadly sins. Well, of course he thinks he's above such pedestrian shortcomings. He's Sherlock Holmes, after all. </p><p>Hopefully I'll flesh it out a little when I get some time. If any of this stirs your creativity, go right ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Man of Virtue

Sherlock Holmes doesn't eat.

Sometimes for days on end he consumes no food, only sipping water occasionally. He has found that days four and five are optimal for reasoned deductions, but he still won't become distracted by hunger until at least a week and a half has passed. Depending, of course, on how interesting the case is. The lack of food is sometimes incidental; he simply forgets to eat when there are better things going on. Mostly it is intentional. The chemicals released in the brain after being satiated are lethargic, warm, and much too comfortable to be conducive to his work environs. The body's temperature drops a few degrees when deprived of food and he needs that edge. Needs to stay sharp. When he does eat he can feel his body digesting and it's mildly disgusting and rather distracting. He gorges himself, day after day, with that cold, tight, emptiness.

 

Sherlock Holmes doesn't try to save face.

He will work to destroy his own reputation if it suits the case. He has little interest in what the press say about him, what opinions those close to him hold, and he doesn't see why he should. They mean less than nothing to him. The police, the clients, they are a delivery service. They deliver cases to him, and sometimes, rarely, but once in a great while, they deliver him a person. A real person. Serial killers, the smart ones. High, white collar crime and syndicates and people who really know what they are doing. All these sheep milling around, they have no idea what they are doing. As they're told, and they don't even know that. But sometimes he gets an Irene Adler. Sometimes he gets a James Moriarty. Someone who desperately wants someone to know how clever they are. Another real person. And Sherlock knows exactly how clever they are. Because he is cleverer. And he will show them before he takes them down.

 

Sherlock Holmes envies no one.

Why would he when they, in those little brains, well, they're all so dull. How slowly they move through the world. How limited their view. They spend their time doing jobs, buying groceries, having dull little conversations. Having babies, getting married, getting unmarried. Watching the telly where people are getting married, unmarried, having babies. Reading books where they get married. Unmarried. Have babies. Groceries. Jobs. Down to the pub. Never noticing the double homicide that was committed last night in that alley. Never realizing the lies that surround their tunneled vision. Unbearable. Sherlock's world is everything. Everything that is or was is his. He can see it all, and he's the only one. No blinders on his eyes. He is privy to the battlefield that surges and rages at the edge of vision. He moves quickly, quietly. And when the battle dies down he resigns himself to his bed once more: existing in an immaterial state and waiting for the next case. Exhausted, alone, he wonders if maybe he hasn't removed his blinders at all, just angled them differently.

 

Sherlock Holmes is never hateful.

He's a sociopath, the most he can muster up is annoyance. He's rarely put in a position to be angry anyway. How could he be angry with anyone when he already knew what they were going to do? The first meeting will reveal everything about a man. There is no fury when there is no surprise. There is no feeling at all. Whatever they throw at him, no matter how they meant it, he never takes it personally. Unless they throw it at John. John is Sherlock's responsibility and he doesn't get angry over it, not really. The quick and violent punishment they receive is simply a way to remind others that John is off limits. And if he should take a bit of pleasure from it, well, he always enjoys his work.

 

Sherlock Holmes couldn't care less for money.

If it wasn't for John he would probably just throw his un-cashed checks at Ms. Hudson whenever she bothered him. There is very little in the world that Sherlock desires less than a large bank account or expensive possessions. He is above all that. He is an intellectual. He sees - and he remembers it all. He gathers information to him, tucks it away for a rainy afternoon or for the day that identifying that particular type of tobacco ash is useful to a case. He knows everything, he needs to know. Sherlock doesn't know what he would do with extra money, and he also doesn't know what he would do in a world where he didn't know everything he could possibly know. What a poor existence everyone else must have.

 

Sherlock Holmes is not lustful.

He understands, in an academic sense, what lust is. He knows it is capable of driving an otherwise unremarkable person to atypical behavior. He always found it a dull and common sort of explanation. What is possibly accomplished with such acts? Statistically the act is over in four to seven minutes and you're exactly where you were, a bit sweatier. And those ordinary people, they think about it so much. Sometimes it seems like their entire lives are spent trying to do it, doing it, or worrying that other people are when they're not around. The only lust Sherlock knows is the exquisite diligence of looking for the answer, the keen sense of completion, the intolerable thought that there might be someone, right now, a real person, doing interesting things without him.

 

Sherlock Holmes won't get up.

Sometimes for days on end he lounges listlessly, moving only from the bed to the couch to the bathroom. He has vague, unsubstantiated memories of running down streets, searching through rubbish bins, frantic instability and infinite motion. But it all seems a bit unreal. All he can fathom is here, now. Nothing. Absolutely nothing is happening and it is almost intolerable but he still won't get up. There is nothing to get up for. If there isn't a serial killer to catch or a terrorist plot to stop there is no reason to exist. He can do an experiment if it is helpful or it catches his interest but at these moments there is nothing. He wishes everything would explode because he certainly can't do anything until the world gives him something to do.


End file.
